word prompt : wound
It was a terrible and cruel thing to do a child. His parents were on drugs the day he was born, which said a lot for his general state of mind.
His mother, a former Miss Teen USA, originally wanted to have a natural child birth so she could experience all the screaming blinding white pain for herself. She wanted to feel something real for once in her plastic existence. A month before she was due, she tripped over a root that had grown through the sidewalk outside her suburban treasure home and broke her ankle. She was administered swift medical care and though they were determined to keep her off painkillers, she managed to procure some from the neighborhood teen pharmacist.
Quickly, she formed an addiction and spent the last month of her pregnancy in a drug induced bliss. When her son was born, she barely noticed his face, too overwhelmed by the sensation of birthing a baby house moments after the baby itself. Rather than causing further damage, her brush with reality had given her an interest in existentialism.
His father was no less a case for Family Services though he actually had a legally binding prescription. His pill was generally used to quell psychotic episodes.
This was a mistake. His anxiety attacks bordered on severe, sure--often he would huddle in a corner, his body sweating cold tears from the inside out, shaking like a leaf on a branch in a bloody earthquake, his mind boiling and the blood pumping, but the breath barely escaping the narrow chamber between his lungs and the outside world. His thoughts would scream like a freight train, indistinguishable, slurred, and ever so mad, like a red, red balloon. He had been known to over-react on several occasions--he once shot a man just to watch him smile--but he was far from psychotic, honest and true.
The drug begged to differ. While his first and only son was leaving the comforts of his wife's womb, he was curled up in a plastic chair sobbing uncontrollably, sucking his thumb. The ghost of his mother stood over the convulsing body of his wife, shaking her head in disapproval.
The baby boy emerged, perfectly quiet. He blinked his eyes.
"Well," said the doctor. "He's here. What name do you give?"
"Fester," said the lady on the table. "Fester Wound."
Story of his life.
October 2005
His mother, a former Miss Teen USA, originally wanted to have a natural child birth so she could experience all the screaming blinding white pain for herself. She wanted to feel something real for once in her plastic existence. A month before she was due, she tripped over a root that had grown through the sidewalk outside her suburban treasure home and broke her ankle. She was administered swift medical care and though they were determined to keep her off painkillers, she managed to procure some from the neighborhood teen pharmacist.
Quickly, she formed an addiction and spent the last month of her pregnancy in a drug induced bliss. When her son was born, she barely noticed his face, too overwhelmed by the sensation of birthing a baby house moments after the baby itself. Rather than causing further damage, her brush with reality had given her an interest in existentialism.
His father was no less a case for Family Services though he actually had a legally binding prescription. His pill was generally used to quell psychotic episodes.
This was a mistake. His anxiety attacks bordered on severe, sure--often he would huddle in a corner, his body sweating cold tears from the inside out, shaking like a leaf on a branch in a bloody earthquake, his mind boiling and the blood pumping, but the breath barely escaping the narrow chamber between his lungs and the outside world. His thoughts would scream like a freight train, indistinguishable, slurred, and ever so mad, like a red, red balloon. He had been known to over-react on several occasions--he once shot a man just to watch him smile--but he was far from psychotic, honest and true.
The drug begged to differ. While his first and only son was leaving the comforts of his wife's womb, he was curled up in a plastic chair sobbing uncontrollably, sucking his thumb. The ghost of his mother stood over the convulsing body of his wife, shaking her head in disapproval.
The baby boy emerged, perfectly quiet. He blinked his eyes.
"Well," said the doctor. "He's here. What name do you give?"
"Fester," said the lady on the table. "Fester Wound."
Story of his life.
October 2005